“Because mention is made of Death in men’s wills and testaments, I warrant you there is none will set his hand to them, till the physician hath given his last doom, and utterly forsaken him.”—Montaigne.

Among the wills of Kentish folk there is one of a John Crampe, who lived in the parish of St. Peter the Apostle, Isle of Thanet, by calling a husbandman. He was one of those whose last hours are troubled by the “heavy business” of a death-bed disposition. We read that “on or about the 3rd day of September, 1727, the said John Crampe, now deceased, being then sick in bed, did give directions or instructions to him the deponent, George Witherden, ... for the making of the last will and testament of him the said deceased.... And the said deceased then attempted to sign the said will, but was so weak that he could not guide the pen, and so died without signing the same.”

Or again. On the 27th of January, 1717, there appeared Margaret Preston and Ellis Kyffin to depose that they “being together at the lodgings of Mrs. Priscilla Blake, widow, in Crown Court, in the parish of St. James’s, ... who then lay very ill, severally saw her the said Priscilla Blake, who was then of sound mind memory and understanding and well knew what she did, execute her last will and testament; ... which will had, as they believe, been drawn up the day before by her directions, and but just then read over to her; for the deponent, Ellis Kyffin, asking her if she was satisfied with it all the time she was going to make her mark to the same, the testatrix answered she was. With that the deponent said, ‘God strengthen your hand,’ to which she again replied, ‘Amen,’ and then made her mark to the said will as now appears, and took a seal from the wax dropped near the same, and said that that was her will: in testimony whereof this deponent Ellis Kyffin subscribed her name as a witness thereto, but the deponent Preston, not being able to write her name, was the reason that her name was not put as a witness thereto.”

Of such cases the following, too, is picturesque and significant. The affidavit accompanying the curt and curious will of Henry Harding, a Staffordshire worthy, explains its formality, and reveals a touching death-bed scene in the early morning of Easter Sunday, 1761. It begins without preamble. “Mr. Harding gives to his two nephews Henry and William, and his niece Mary Harding, the sum of £100 apiece.” He proceeds to give “to his dear cousin Abramaria Harris his work chair bottoms and his best hangings of his best bed; ... to his servant John Johnson all his clothes (except his silk stockings).” He desires his executors to take care of his servant George Clarke during his life. The residue of his estate, subject to a few other bequests, he leaves to his brother.

This will is sworn to by one Samuel Wilcock and by Abramaria Harris. It was made at two o’clock on that Easter morning. The testator, feeling the approach of death, sent for the said Samuel Wilcock, of Abbots Bromley. About 1 a.m., it would seem, he arrived, and to him Mr. Harding gave instructions to draw up his will in writing. Mr. Wilcock accordingly wrote down the instructions of the dying man, and then prepared to write out the will in more formal and regular style. But before the draft could be completed, about four o’clock the same morning, Henry Harding passed away. Truly a strange hour and a strange time to make a will, and a harassing task for a man’s last moments on earth. But to his negligence or superstition we owe this picture of an Easter morning, a hundred and fifty years ago.

From the will of William the Conqueror, which was set down at his death-bed, to that of an entombed miner, recently, who wrote: “May the Holy Virgin have mercy on me. I am writing in the dark, because we have eaten all our wax matches. You have been a good wife. All my property belongs to you,” such incidents have always been occurring, and, it may be imagined, always will occur. The Probate Court reveals them now and then. Recently a testator, suffering from pneumonia, and near the point of death, about 3.30 in the afternoon, dictated to his doctors his testamentary dispositions. The document was written in pencil, and the dying man made his mark thereto, which was duly witnessed. A copy was then made in ink, but certain words were omitted, and, owing to the sudden necessity of administering oxygen, not finally inserted. This second document was executed by the testator, but, one of the witnesses not seeing him make his mark, it could not be admitted to probate. About 5.30 the testator died. On application to the court, probate was granted of the pencil will.

In these cases there is something extremely distressing. When a man’s thoughts should be composed, as far as possible, in the consideration of his final end and on the prospects of another world, he is tied to earth by his efforts to settle his temporal affairs. It is no wonder that moralists and theologians have insisted on the necessity of making a will betimes: the wonder is that any should be found to neglect their admonitions, or be surprised by sickness and sudden death. “They are so fearful to die that they dare not look upon it as possible, and think that the making of a will is a mortal sign, and sending for a spiritual man an irrecoverable disease; and they are so afraid lest they should think and believe now they must die, that they will not take care that it may not be evil in case they should.” Maurice Barrowe, whose will was proved in 1666, may have read Jeremy Taylor’s “Holy Dying”; certainly his sentiments would have found favour with the great divine. “In the Name of God Amen. I Maurice Barrowe, of Barningham, in the County of Suffolk, Esquire, duly weighing the mutable condition of this life and certainty of death manifested by daily examples, to prevent cares of the world at that time, (those distracting interrupters of a dislodging soul,) now in my perfect health and entire memory, to the glory of God, quiet of my mind, designing of my heirs, satisfaction of my debts, remembrance of my friends and recompense of my servants, do make and ordain this my last will and testament.”

Pathetic, indeed, death-bed wills too often are. Here is the cry of a humble inhabitant of Kent in 1608. “Loving father, my humble duty remembered unto you. It hath pleased God to visit me with sickness, so as I think not to see you any more in this world: wherefore I pray you to be good to my wife and children.” Or take another more than a hundred years later. “Queenborough, May 12th, 1721. Brother John Smith, I am very bad, so bad that I cannot tell whether I shall live or die. So in case of death I desire you to be executor to take care of the things and the girl. I cannot write, but this shall stand in as full force as if in any other form drawn.”

More explicit, indeed of a painful preciseness, are the last words of Denham Castle, who died of smallpox in 1709. “Sir, I am very much obliged to you for enquiring after me in so particular a manner. My circumstances are very bad, and smallpox come out as thick as they can. I have not had a wink of sleep, and am choked almost with the phlegm. If some method is not taken to rid me of the phlegm and give me some speedy relief, I shall not be able to hold out. I would desire the favour to acquaint my father with it, who is at Sheperton beyond Hampton Town in Middlesex, but I would not have him or any of my sisters come near me, for it will be of no use to me. If I should do otherwise than well, I have some money in a box in my study, the only box there: it is under lock and key. Some part of it which is gold is put up within the lids of my pocket-book, which will be found wrapped up in some linen. There are also [some other sums]: that money will bury me privately; and if there is any remaining, I desire my youngest sister and Nanny who is a prentice in London may have it, as being the worst provided for.”

Well worth comparing with the last is the will of Thomas Dixon, “late of the parish of St. Martin’s-in-the-Fields.”

The veil is lifted from the last days of a dying man, but lifted for the moment only. Did the letter reach his wife in time? Did she hasten and reach him alive? We may hope she did, for Thomas Dixon lingered until the 8th of July; but thus wills constantly tantalise us, while they leave the more to the imagination.

In 1603 the plague, which was to mark the century with its devastations, carried off in London over 41,000 souls. Nor did the neighbouring villages escape. As witnessed by the parish register, the Rector of Clapham, with his family, fell a prey. Within one month there died:—

In view of this list the Rector’s will, signed the day before he died in the presence of his maid, Susan Bennet, “and of one old Joane his keeper,” has an added pathos. “Brother Gabriel Coochman, I commend me unto you. I am at the point of death and have no hope ever to see you in this world. My will is that you shall have all my goods and chattels for the use of my wife and children. And I do hereby make you my sole executor for the use aforesaid, and do earnestly pray and desire you to have a fatherly care for the bringing up of my poor children, as my trust is in you. And so I bid you heartily farewell, till we meet in heaven; this second of September, 1603, your loving brother.”

The death of Susan, the maid, is recorded, though as she died last of all we need not ascribe it to her witnessing the will. But probably such a kindly act often cost a man his life. Possibly the parson himself contracted the illness thus, or at least in visiting some afflicted parishioner. For it is noticeable that of the family he was the first to die. We can go back to July, 1515, for such an act of devotion by the parish priest, when the will of one Gefferey Salesbury, of Leicestershire, was witnessed by the priest only, “and no more for fear of the plague of pest.”

To the difficulty of obtaining witnesses was added the unwillingness of scriveners to attend. “Memorandum that upon Wednesday, the 9th day of November, 1625, Edward Blackerby, citizen and clothworker of London, and of the parish of St. Stephen in Coleman Street, in London, being sick in body and in danger of death, but of perfect mind and memory, being desirous to make his last will, sent divers times for a scrivener of his acquaintance to write the same, and in the meantime, in the presence of John Frank and William Blackerby, did very oftentimes pronounce and say that he made his wife his executrix. At the length, perceiving that the scrivener of his acquaintance which he so often sent for was fearful to come unto him in his sickness, he thereupon caused another scrivener to be sent for to write his will; but before his will could be written, his memory was so decayed and so weak that he could not finish what he intended.” Similarly Henry Ludlowe, “late of the parish of St. Martin’s in the Fields, ... goldsmith, being sensible of the hand of God upon him during the late contagion, his family being visited and himself dangerously ill of the sickness whereof he died, and having a desire to declare his will and mind, ... no scrivener being then to be had to put his will into writing, upon a Monday happening about the middle of August last past (1665) ... did cause one of his nurse keepers to call up the others into his chamber on purpose to be witnesses to what he had to say.”

With the intimate and pathetic will of Francis Mountstephen we revert to the plague of 1603. It was proved on the 29th of August that year. “I repose trust in you, brother Nicholas, concerning the executorship. Brother Nicholas, since it hath pleased God to visit me with his rod, which I pray God that rod I may take with patience, you writ unto me concerning the suit which I ever well liked; and the cause of my sending to you a Sunday morning was to that end, and to have made straight those things which you requested. For that bond of £50 you speak of I am content you should have it, upon condition that you would see the rest equally bestowed upon the rest; but, if your discretion think it good, let my two younger sisters have somewhat the greater share, for they have the most need withal. Remember my uncle Baldiom because of my promise. And so referring the rest to your discretion, I commit you to the Lord God, (I end,) whom I desire to release me of my pains which I intolerable do bear. From the pesthouse, this two and twentieth of August, 1603. Your loving brother F. M. If it please God that I do die, I owe to Edward Smith 10/-: I pray you pay it for me. F. M. I pray you take 8/-of Elizabeth Price when she cometh to town. Witnesses, Henry Chitham, keeper of the pesthouse, Rose Gibb and Robert Smith.”